Other musos would say, ‘Don’t work with Robert, he’s deaf’ – but not Stephen

Melbourne musicians Robert Goodge, 67, and Stephen Cummings, 70, have been writing and recording together – and helping each other with everything from rat infestations to episodes of ill health – since the 1980s.

Loading

Stephen: About 40 years ago, I had a radio show on Triple R and Robert was in a group called Essendon Airport. We used to play their songs and make fun of them. I got Robert to play guitar on my [1984] solo album Senso, and I helped his band I’m Talking get a record deal. We started to get to know each other in a more personal way when I lived in Elwood near the canal and there was the occasional rat in the flat. I rang up Robert and said, “Sorry, but what do I do?” He came around and set a trap in a bag. That was very bonding.

Robert and I started working on songs together. We’ve got different tastes, but we allow for each other’s differences. I wasn’t into disco as much as him; I liked local prog-rock groups. We did a Medibank ad that ran for 20 years and we earned more money from that than we ever did from our bands. We’d laugh about it.

My career has been up and down, but I’ve managed to keep doing it. The continuity in our friendship is part of that. Robert’s a very gentle, kind, generous person. He’s not competitive at all, but I am, so he’s been good at calming me down a bit. Of all the people I’ve worked with, I find him to be the most musical. We get on well, but we don’t talk about personal things; we just gossip about the music business. I’ve got some incredible stories out of him, like how his mum made him a pair of underpants out of pencil-case material.

“Beforehand, I didn’t think everyone was batting on my side. It was wrong thinking by me. When it’s good like this, it’s a real kick playing music.”

Stephen Cummings

I was going to retire in 2020. I was doing a farewell tour. When my plane landed in Brisbane, I went to stand up and thought I’d fall over. I’d had a stroke and didn’t know it. We even played a gig that night. My wife met us at the airport back in Melbourne. Straight away, she asked, “What the hell happened to you?” She rushed me to hospital.

When I got out, I worried I wouldn’t be able to play guitar or write songs or sing as I couldn’t move my left hand. I had to learn to walk again. A stroke can also affect your breathing. Even though I was supposed to be retired, I hated the idea of not being able to sing if I felt like it. I found that depressing. What kept me sane was practising my walking and trying to sing again.

Robert noticed and said, “We could just make a record here in your room. We’ll do it for the hell of it.” He might have vaguely known how I felt because he’d had stomach cancer. I couldn’t play guitar, but I wrote the words and sang. Robert was tough on me but in a friendly way, encouraging. He’s fussy and knows how he wants things. I was unsure, but it ended up working really well. I thought, “It must sound good if Robert is spending all this time catching the train over here.” He’s not flippant with his time.